The Meeting of Lines

the grass and the wind

the grass and the wind

the city like
its people a plain
field of tall grass
shoulder to shoulder
brushing lightly against
each other accidentally      because
of breezes and weather patterns
the occasional emotional
wavering we feel
when we bend
in front of faces
of others in the field
and streets

love their shades of green and
slight yellow in the fall
the lady bug on their backs

the wind changes
we waver
in our quick directions
most of us forgetting
that specific shade
of those we bent for
beat for
lost in the color of a field
blowing     accidentally
forgetting in the wind

through an open car window

through an open car window

   the wind ran his fingers
       through the long silken
         blades of grass
              and i        blew on your lashes
             waken you
          to the sun resting
       his head on the body
        of the plains
          the day falling
              asleep
                 at the setting of it all
                     eager i was
                        to show the night
                              the rising
                                  of your face

like air trapped in the weave of wool

like air trapped in the weave of wool

an eggshell governs
the movement of blood
within my body and skin surrounding
the lace of many
starched doilies crocheted
by my grandmother and her fingers
when i a child
was protected by larger hands

a grown man i guard
it all in fair isle sweaters
thick     buttoned for the look
of clumsy minded men
masculinity layered
in knits unnoticed
because they’re often washed
and worn mismatched
to give another impression
i’m larger and less
delicate     as emotionally uncomplicated
men must be
thick handed     headed
(soft and delicately hearted)
              (brittle and fragile)
when naked     without

brail

brail

                    your skin a papyrus
                    my tongue a quill
                    soft to write upon you
                    dipped in musk and
                    honey         scriptures of secret
                    thoughts and plans
                    to wrap you in a breath
                    sweetness and tailored
                    taffeta dresses to
                    conceal the fingerprints
                    i left on you
                    while reading

laundered

laundered

there is the smell of fresh laundry
trapped in hair
  like threads of my shirt
   a warm drape
    along my back I miss
     you here to tell me it’s there
      your nose
     where it traveled upward
    the lower part of my neck
   the basket by it and my shoulder
  hands chasing it
around a soft cotton covered sternum
and below
where my stomach
  sat a feeling of
   what it felt like to be fresh
     linens in your hand
      and loose
        terry towel threads brushed into the creases
          of palms

           every one of my hairs      threads
        on end
    on end